


One for Four (the Measured with Coffee Spoons remix)

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Pre-Canon, Remix, Sherlock Remix, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry was never much on John’s birthday.</p><p>Thanks to LouiseLux and Lindentreeisle for betaing and Britpicking, and to cherrytide for the story, which gave me a great opportunity to dig into Watson family dynamics. Remaining mistakes are mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for Four (the Measured with Coffee Spoons remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Leap](https://archiveofourown.org/works/809110) by [CherryBlossomTide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide). 



"It's not really your birthday," Harriet said. "You're only three." She wiggled her feet at him.

"Shut up," John snapped. He was eleven, and they both knew it.

"That's why you're so short," she continued from her perch in the tree. "Because you can't grow right. Not enough birthdays." Harriet was nearly fifteen and tall for her age. She didn't climb trees any more unless she could lord it over John, like she was doing now.

"That Harriet," adults would say. "She's so mature, isn't she?" John would roll his eyes and try to ignore it, while Harriet would soak up the praise. John, meanwhile, was still small for his age, and people usually assumed he was at least two years younger than he was.

Harriet insisted on rubbing it in, and it was worst of all on his birthday. Mum insisted it was extra-special having a birthday that only came every four years, but he'd known that was rubbish even when he was little.

Now it was the first of March, so it had certainly been his birthday at some point. Maybe there was half a second just before midnight that had been his birthday. It was hard to say. That was the only good thing about being born on February 29, that mystery. It was like having a hidden birthday, that no one had but you. And the other people born that day, but he hadn't met many other people, and they'd all been old.

"Anyway," Harriet said. "Even though it's not really your birthday, I got you a present. Just from me." She jumped down from the tree. Her jeans were filthy. John got a certain grim pleasure from imagining what Mum would say when she saw her darling daughter covered in grime.

He also felt a certain healthy suspicion. Harriet never got him birthday presents. Even on his real birthday. "What is it, then?"

"You get to be the first person to call me by my new name."

"What, are you changing it?" Harriet had often pulled these things when she was younger. Once when John was five she insisted on being called Lady Ophelia for the better part of a month. But she hadn't acted like she'd wanted to be anything but Harriet for years.

"Kind of," she said. "I'm going to go by Harry."

"Harry's all right, I guess," he said. Was this some kind of trick? "Why?"

She shrugged. "It's just better. Harriet's so old."

"I thought you wanted to be older."

"I do," she said. "Like twenty, not like someone's grandmother." She shook her head. "Harriet's _too_ old. It's easy for you. There are all kinds of people named John."

That was true. "And you're not worried people will think you're a man?"

She just laughed.

Years later, when she came out, John realized that he'd known for years, that her name change had been the first step she'd taken toward revealing her own truth. "All right, then, Harry."

She smiled. "I'm sorry you don't have a real birthday."

He just shook his head.

She'd even sung along that year when Mum brought out his cake, loudest of all, and winked at him just after he blew out the candles. They didn't have many truces, growing up, but John would always remember that as one of them.

 

"It's not your birthday," Harriet said, peering into the depths of John's tiny room. It was probably two o'clock in the morning, but it wasn't like John had been sleeping, so he could hardly complain. Her voice was steady. Somehow that was even worse than the times when she'd called him up blind drunk. She was getting more drunk more often, and her body was adjusting to it.

It frightened him, when he allowed himself to think about it. Mostly he didn't, but it was different when your alcoholic sister was at your door at two o'clock in the morning, with what was more or less a happy birthday greeting.

He undid the latch and opened the door. "Hello, Harry."

"I brought you something," she said, and shoved a cheap gift bag at him, the kind of thing you'd grab at the petrol station because you hadn't thought about wrapping the present until you were almost at your brother's door. "I didn't buy you a present, because it's not your birthday, but I thought you could use this."

There wasn't any tissue paper, so he could see what was inside. A phone. Last year's model, maybe, but not a cheap one.

"It's my old one," she said. "I know you don't want any charity, but that's really not charity, is it? You told me you want to work. Hard to find work without a phone."

"Yes," he said, taking it out and turning its cool, solid weight over in his hand. "I suppose that's right."

And there was the inscription. From Clara, of course. A bloody cast-off from her divorce.

"She always got on with you," Harry said, almost defiantly. "Said you were the sensible one of us. I don't think she'd mind you having it."

"No," he said. "I suppose not." If he turned it down, she'd probably chuck it into the Thames. "Well. Thank you."

"How are you getting on, then?"

"Oh, fine," John said, and stuck the phone into his pocket. He hoped he wouldn't have to prove it wasn't stolen. _No, it's a gift from my alcoholic sister. The inscription is from her ex-wife. Yes, well, life's funny, isn't it?_ "Do you want to come in, maybe have some tea?" _Sober up?_

"That'd be lovely," she said, and almost seemed to mean it.

When he turned the lights on properly he could notice the faint yellowish cast to her skin. _Already?_ But of course she'd been drinking for more than two decades now. In the early days, she'd insist she only drank on weekends, at parties. She'd secretly feed her hangovers with raw eggs and fry-ups. Then, she wasn't an alcoholic because she never got drunk. She'd never actually said "I can stop any time I want to," at least not to John, but she'd hit all the other steps.

No wonder Clara had tired of it. John had been tired of it for years, and he hadn't lived with her since she went to university.

They sat together on the edge of John's bed. John only had two mugs, and one was chipped. He took the chipped one, and watched as she scanned the room with her careful banker's eye. "This place is shit," she announced, with the finality of a judge.

"I know," he said. "I've been looking for something better. I'll probably have to leave London, but that means choosing another place to live. Somewhere cheaper."

She snorted. "In the suburbs? Not bloody likely, John. You're not cut out for that life. Never have been. It's why you signed up, isn't it?" She kicked at John's shoe, half-under the bed. "Adventure, excitement. The chance to shoot at strangers."

"Stop that," he said, more out of habit than anger.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?"

"That you're hurt," she said. "That you can't do what you want to any more. That I was always such a bitch about you being in the army."

"It's all right," he said, and almost meant it. "Professional hazard, when you shoot at people, sometimes they go and shoot back."

She smiled a little. "I suppose that's true." She put her cup down. "I'll stop bothering you," she said. "Let you get some sleep."

"Well, thanks," he said. "Be careful. Take a cab or something."

"Don't worry." She smiled at him. "You're not that far from civilization here. I'll be fine." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Have a good night, Johnny. My number's in the phone. Call me if you need me, all right? Don't let your pride help you starve to death."

"Understood," he said. "I won't."

He took the phone back out of his pocket after she left. It was a smartphone, as he'd guessed, a Nokia with a slide-out keyboard. He'd have to take it somewhere in the morning and make sure someone could get the damn thing to work for him. New SIM card, all that. Might be more work that it was worth.

But as much as he hated to admit it, Harry was right. He needed a phone, and a mobile that got email would save him having to buy a computer right away.

He went back to the home screen. She'd deleted most of the custom applications, if she'd had many. Her address book had Harry herself, Clara, and a few of her childhood friends. John wondered if Harry thought he'd be more likely to call them if he really landed in the shit. She might have been right.

The calendar had one alert. He checked it. _John's birthday,_ it said.

"Well," John said to his empty room. "Happy birthday, me."

He finished his tea, and for once, he slept.


End file.
